A Christmas Miracle
by the classicist
Summary: The first Christmas after giving away Marigold, Edith encounters someone unexpected at a Christmas party, and Life takes a turn for the better...


"Edith! My dear, we're _so_ glad you could come!" Claudia Gervas's smile is wide and warm and - Edith knows - quietly pitying.

"Thank you, Lady Gervas. H-happy Christmas."

"And to you, my dear. And all our best wishes for the New Year." There it is again, Edith thinks. The pity. The sympathy for the spinster verging on middle age who hadn't yet managed to hook herself a husband.

Edith forces a smile and turns away, drifting aimlessly past the Christmas tree, and the musicians, and the decorations. "Champagne, madam?" one of the footmen asks, and she nods vaguely.

She doesn't know why she even agreed to this - it isn't as if she is under her parents' control anymore, not really - but Mama had nagged at her in her good-natured way, and Granny had frowned, and Papa had squeezed her hand and said, "Darling girl, do say you'll come. Perhaps it'll cheer you up - you haven't looked at all yourself recently."

And so she had agreed, and here she is at the Gervas's Christmas party, hoping against hope that -

"Lady Edith!"

His voice startles her, a jolting, jarring, whisper of the past, in the unlikeliest of places. Somehow, she never associates him with ballrooms, although she knows that he met his late wife in one, and fell in love with the Duchess of Marlborough in one, as well. She turns, fighting an irrational urge to check her hair, her gown, her shoes, and meets his eyes. In all the months since he left her, since she met Michael, since she had Marigold, she has imagined this meeting, imagined herself behaving coldly, making him regret what he did to her… but all that melts away when she takes in his face, the small smile that is more eyes than mouth, the tousled blonde hair, more flecked with grey than she remembers it being.

"Anthony…" she breathes, and feels at home for the first time since Rosamund took Marigold from her arms in Switzerland, a lifetime and three months ago. "H-how are you?"

He tucks his good arm behind his back, a soldier giving a report, and flushes. "Well. As well as I can be." Suddenly, intensely, he leans forwards and asks, "And you? Edith - are you well? My dear, have you been happy?"

The endearment somehow lessens the weight of tired grief that has been resting on her shoulders for so long now, and she swallows thickly, tears springing to her eyes. Anthony's own eyes widen and he draws back, panicked. "Lady Edith, forgive me - I meant no - I shall remove myself immediately…"

She has to reach forwards to grasp hold of his arm, and prevent him from making another run for it. "No! Please!" Her voice comes out too loud and too desperate, but he covers his surprise well and settles in peaceably at her side. "Is everything quite all right?" he asks, head leaning down towards hers in concern.

She doesn't remember the last time anyone asked her that and she chuckles half-hysterically into her champagne bowl. "No," she murmurs back at last. "Everything is so very far from all right that you wouldn't believe me even if I told you. And I _can't_ tell you."

The warmth of his hand on her shoulder surprises her. "You can tell me anything," he reminds her seriously. "We may not have… you may not be my… but Edith, I hope you still feel that you can confide in me, that I _will_ try to help if I can. If you are in some sort of trouble - "

Another strangled, choked noise from her throat. "Oh, no. Not any more."

He frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't - "

She sighs, and turns to look at him again, brushing a tired hand over her forehead. "It doesn't matter, really. I'm not your responsibility, Anthony - I never was - no matter how much I might wish that I - that I were."

Casting around for assistance, he notices the French windows onto the terrace. "A breath of fresh air might do you good," he suggests, and is leading her towards them, his broad hand warm against her back, before she has time to protest. It is very cold out there - looking like snow, in fact - and Edith is soon shivering in her backless dress; Anthony removes his tail-coat, albeit with difficulty because of the sling, and slides it awkwardly around her shoulders. She rests her champagne on the ledge of the terrace, and tugs it closer around her body, with a soft smile of thanks. It smells of him - ink and old books and pipe tobacco and peppermints - oh, and _home_. "Please," he murmurs. "Tell me what's wrong. Edith - "

She can't bear his sympathy any longer - not when she is _so_ unworthy of it, not when she has ruined herself _so_ completely - but still the words come out more bluntly than even she had been expecting. "I've had a child, Anthony. I went to Switzerland and gave birth to a baby, out of wedlock, and Aunt Rosamund found a couple looking to adopt, and I'm never going to see - " She looks up, unable for the moment to continue, but his face is half in shadow, and she can't see his expression. "So, you see, Anthony, I'm ruined. I have no virtue, and if anyone ever finds out, I'll have no reputation either. I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone and unhappy, and there's nothing you or I or _anyone else_ can do about it."

Time freezes for a moment and then Anthony asks quietly, "A son or a daughter?"

"What?" Edith whispers, and Anthony steps a little closer.

"I said, do you have a son or a daughter?" he repeats - perfectly calm, perfectly quiet - and Edith… dissolves.

"A little girl," she manages through her tears, and Anthony exhales and steps into the light, and she can see that his face is creased not with disgust or shock, but with deep, deep sadness and sympathy. "Oh, my dear girl. This _is_ a tangle, isn't it?"

His good arm slides around her as if it is the most natural thing in the world and she leans in, head resting half against his shoulder, half against his chest. "I've been so, so _stupid_ ," she admits, her voice muddy with champagne and weeping, and Anthony shushes her, almost harshly. "We'll have _none_ of that, thank you. You've made a mistake - we all do it sooner or later." She _hears_ rather than sees his lips quirk into a wry smile. "Some more frequently than others, as you well know. Do you want to know what I think?"

"What do you think?" she murmurs wetly into his shirt front.

His hand squeezes her shoulder kindly. "You've been terribly, _terribly_ brave. Who else knows?"

Edith sniffs loudly - this dress is not built for handkerchiefs - and tells him, "Just Aunt Rosamund, and Granny. They - they said it would be best for everyone if I gave her up, but… she's like a thorn, stuck in me, one I'll never get out, and I don't even want to. Because if I forget her, then I'll be an even worse person than I am now." She is silent for a moment and then asks, "What sort of mother gives up her own child, Anthony?"

"One who is scared, or desperate, or unable to care for them." He smooths a hand down over her hair. "Edith… you thought you were acting for the best. You wanted your little girl to be safe and happy and well cared for, didn't you?"

Silently, she nods against him and he squeezes her again. "There, then. I don't think that makes you a bad mother at all. In fact… it makes you a very _good_ one, albeit under difficult circumstances." He pauses, and then asks, hesitantly, "What about her father? I take it… that he isn't in a position to take care of you both?"

Edith tenses against him, and her voice is odd and stiff when she answers. "No. He's… he's married, to a woman in an asylum. He wanted… comfort, I suppose, and so did I… but when I found out I was expecting our baby, he… he broke things off." She shrugs. "You see, Anthony? I _was_ stupid."

"You were inexperienced," he corrects. "Although… this is the sort of experience I'd have wished to spare you, my dear. I don't suppose that you would have felt so desperate for love if I hadn't - " He paused and his fingers tightened momentarily around her elbow. "If I hadn't behaved in such an ungentlemanly fashion towards you."

She _does_ cry again, then - proper, heavy, wracking sobs this time, burying her head into his broad chest and releasing all the pent-up grief and fear and anger of the past half-year. Anthony lets her - there is nothing else he can do at this moment, and he so desperately wants to help her, in whatever capacity she will allow. At last she draws back and takes several deep, mind-clearing breaths. "Thank you for being so kind, Sir Anthony," she says at last. "I'll be quite all right now. It all just… got on top of me for a moment."

It is a dismissal, but one he realises he is not prepared to accept. "And the next time things get on top of you? What then?"

"I'll cope," she tells him firmly. "I'm getting rather good at it."

"You shouldn't have to _cope_ ," he replies, equally firmly. "Not on your own, not with something like this."

She chuckles bitterly and finishes her champagne. "Then what do you suggest? That I find myself a husband to handle it all for me? Someone young enough that I'll not be left a child-widow, of course, but presumably someone stupid enough that he won't mind marrying a wanton slut - "

"Don't," he bites out harshly. "Do _not_ use those words about yourself."

She shrugs, the heat of sheepish shame trickling through her, and turns away. "It's true," she mutters stubbornly. "It's what most people would think."

"I'm not 'most people'," he reminds her coolly. "You can't carry on like this, Edith."

"Like _what_ , exactly?"

He sighs and comes to stand next to her, their arms just brushing. "I met men during the War who saw and did things that changed them forever. Some of them managed to recover - the ones who got help, who talked about these things. And some of them… didn't. They buried it all and never spoke about it, and all that bitterness and horror turned in on them. They started drinking, taking drugs… some of them ended up taking their own lives. And… I would never forgive myself if anything like that happened to you, my dear."

Edith looks up at him solemnly. "Anthony," she whispers. "I… I promise. I won't do anything silly. You don't need to worry about me."

He looks down at their feet. "Yes, well…" he murmurs, quiet and calm once more after his outburst. "You need to decide what you want. How you want to live the rest of your life. And then… I hope very much that you'll let me assist you."

She swallows. "I don't - "

"What do you want, Edith?" he asks insistently and she bites her lip.

At last, she takes a deep breath and it all comes pouring out. "I want to carry on writing. I don't want to live at Downton any more. I want to have my daughter back, and be a proper mother to her. I don't want to be alone."

Anthony nods thoughtfully. "You don't have to be." Carefully, he takes her hand. "Edith, if I can offer any help at all, then it is yours, without question, condition, or obligation."

She flinches at his voice, at the quiet sincerity she hears there. "Anthony… the scandal you'd bring down on your head if anyone _ever_ found out - "

"Don't think of that." He swallows. He wants to throw himself down on his knees and beg her to marry him. He wants to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her senseless. He wants to promise her that she'll never want for anything again for as long as she lives. But any of that would be _utterly_ inappropriate, so all he says is, "I have a house. In Cornwall. If you wanted it, if you and - and your daughter needed a place to stay… then you can have it."

Edith swallows and realises that, somewhere inside her, she had been hoping for… well, for more. _Ha!_ a little voice says mockingly inside her, _when will you learn that he doesn't want you? When will you_ learn _, Edith?_

"Anthony… thank you." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "But, you realise, don't you, that I can't possibly accept?"

"Why ever not?"

Edith lifts an eyebrow. "Anthony… you _know_ why not. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be at all fair on you. I'd feel - "

He interrupts before she can get any further. "Rent it from me, if that will make you feel better. It's going to wrack and ruin at the moment - I can't think of a better use for it."

"Why are you doing this?" Edith challenges him, eyes flashing suddenly. "Guilt? Some sort of need for absolution? Anthony, I've already forgiven you, a dozen times over. You don't need to - "

"I - " Anthony's face creases in confusion. "Edith, I'm not speaking out of _guilt_ \- "

"Why else would you offer something like _this_?"

He only watches her, silent, his mouth shut tight as if to hold in some great confession. Eventually, he shrugs, offering a sheepish, crooked half-smile. And a sudden realisation passes over her.

" _Oh_. Oh, _Anthony -_ "

"Please don't," he manages. "I don't require - declarations, or anything of that sort. I know - I'm perfectly aware that I had my chance and threw it away. But… I would be honoured if you would let me help you."

Edith steps towards him as if in a trance. When she reaches him, she rests her hands on his shoulders, gently, and then lets them slide up to his cheeks. They are wet with tears. " _Anthony_ …"

* * *

"I say," Hugh Gervas murmurs in his wife's ear, "Anthony Strallan's taking liberties with a woman out on our terrace."

Claudia lifted an eyebrow. "Well, darling, it _is_ Christmas."

Hugh's face creases with anxiety. "Claudia, be serious - "

"Darling," Claudia kisses him, "if I have planned this at _all_ correctly, then the _only_ person Anthony will be taking liberties with… is _Edith Crawley_."

"Edith…" Hugh exhales loudly. "And you _planned_ this?"

"And rather beautifully too, if I do say so myself."

* * *

 **One year later...**

Mama and Papa had thrown fifty fits, of course, but Edith had deafened herself to all of it, and, with Anthony at her side, had begun to plan the future that she wanted. The house isn't Locksley, but it _is_ beautiful, and it is what they need just now, as they are getting used to each other: small and snug, and overlooking the sea. But the thing that makes it most wonderful is having Marigold with her.

Every morning and evening, she thanks God for it.

That is what she is doing just now, as it happens, standing at the bedroom window, in just her nightgown and a shawl. Christmas Day is dawning outside, bright and cold and clear. In a moment, she thinks, she will go and fetch Marigold and they will see what Father Christmas has brought her. Later, there will be goose and crackers and lots and lots of laughter.

She cannot remember _ever_ being so content before.

There are footsteps behind her, steady and even, and then a hand settles around her waist and she receives a kiss to her cheek. "Happy Christmas, my sweet one," her husband murmurs.

Edith turns in his embrace, and clings to him. "Happy Christmas, Anthony."


End file.
